


An Impala in Atziluth

by Ravenspear



Category: Angel Sanctuary, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-11
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenspear/pseuds/Ravenspear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel Sanctuary/Supernatural ficlets, because these fandoms just look so pretty together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Encounter on a Saturday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Encounter on a Saturday Morning  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Gabriel, Rosiel  
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Word count:** 672  
>  **Warnings:** Spoilers if you don't know who Gabriel is, and it contains implications of Lailah.  
>  Prompt: "Gabriel and Rosiel, don't I know you?"  
>  **Summary:** Gabriel and Rosiel have a brief conversation in a coffee shop.

The Trickster freezes. It can't be. It could never be. Not after Alexiel's seal. Oh _please_ let it not be.

"Oh my, it _is_ , isn't it?" Rosiel says as he comes into view.

He's as beautiful as Jibril (nonono not Jibril anymore, don't ever forget that you are not her) remembers. Pale and cold and beautiful. And insane. Can't forget that Rosiel is fundamentally wrong in the head.

" _Every_ one is wondering where you are, little girl," he says as he sits down by the Trickster's table, crosses his legs gracefully and smiles like a movie star when he waves the waiter over and places his order.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the Trickster says, taking another sip of his coffee (though he supposed you can't really call it that with the amount of sugar and chocolate syrup that's in it).

"Oh, don't be coy, Jibril," Rosiel says with a conspiratorial smile. "I promise I won't say a word to anyone at home."

"Because it's not in your interest that me and the others are united again, huh?" the Trickster snarks.

Rosiel doesn't even stop smiling, damn him. "Oh, what nefarious plot are you ascribing to me now? I assure you I don't care either way," Rosiel says. "I just don't want to meddle in your business, is all," he adds offhandedly as the waiter returns with his glass of mineral water. His smile when he thanks the boy makes the Trickster sick to his stomach.

"Yes, because you've always been staunch opponent of meddling. Say, how is the Prime Minister these day?"

At least at that he gets a reaction; however minutely, Rosiel's prettily manicured fingers tighten around his glass. "Now _I'm_ not quite sure what _you're_ talking about," he says, and it's a pretty good lie.

Too bad Jibril knew a lot more than she was given credit for when she disappeared of the heavenly radar. "Is he still having those nightmares? Or did they suddenly stop when you left? Oh, I'm sorry, I meant 'when your sister locked you in a deep dark hole because she couldn't stand to look at you'."

The cash register explodes, along with every lamp and electrical fixture in the coffee shop.

"Well, I see your little timeout hasn't changed your temper any," the Trickster says, rolling his eyes as he takes another sip from his cup and ignores the frightened humans running out the door as the parts of the room catch on fire.

All the smiles have drained out of Rosiel's face now, and he looks every bit the furious avenging angel. "How do you know of that? How do you know _any_ of that?" he demands, and there are dents in the metal table where the fingers of his left hand is gripping it.

The Trickster shrugs, quirks his mouth into a smile as he leans in in a mockery of Rosiel's earlier attempt at friendly conspiracy. "I'm just _very_ clever."

Rosiel stands up abruptly, lips curved into a strained smile. "Very funny. Also, impossible to prove, even if you _were_ to return," he spits. "I'll stop wasting my time here."

"Don't let the door hit your, admittedly very nicely shaped, ass on the way out," the Trickster says, saluting sloppily as Rosiel stalks out.

When the other angel is gone, he sighs and and looks contemplatively into his sugary coffee-sludge. "Shit," he sums up the situation.

Another sigh, then he digs a previously nonexistent cellphone out of his pocket. He thumbs in a number, then holds it to his ear.

As the phone rings, he watches the street outside the window; all the little mudpeople going about their business as if the worst thing ever isn't at the very second going on right under their noses.

"Hello?" Castiel's very confused voice says on the other line. "Who is this?"

"Hey little bro! So, do you guys have room for one more in that silly old car? Because have _I_ got some interesting news for you..."


	2. Twenty Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Twenty Shadows  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Sevothtarte/Zachariah  
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Word count:** 546  
>  **Warnings:** Spoilers for SPN 5x18. Also, Lailah.  
>  **Notes:** Title from a quote by Shakespeare.  
>  **Summary:** In the waiting room, after.

The prime minister touches down softly, so light that he might not even be there. Around him, the waiting room is silent, still.

He had designed this room himself, once upon a time; clean, beautiful, sterile. A little piece of what Heaven, Earth, Hell would be, once he was done.

The room is not any of those things anymore. It has been torn asunder under the force of Michael's prescence, and there are _fluids_ staining the carpets, and...

And then there is Zachariah.

Zachariah, who had come here on Sevothtarte's orders. Zachariah, who had been his most loyal follower. Zachariah, who had once loved a woman named Lailah. Zachariah, who is dead.

The corpse lies against the wall, eyes staring lifelessly into the ether, mouth hanging open in shock. The shadows of burned wings are painted in ash around it.

Sevothtarte starts; a step begun and almost immediately aborted. He does not know why he has come here. He has no reasons for it. Zachariah had been a tool to be utilized, and while his loss is regrettable for political reasons, he had been ultimately expendable. He should leave.

Why can't he bear to?

An eternity stretches within the broken make-believe room as Sevothtarte stands petrified, held in place between strange warring impulses.

When finally something breaks, it is Lailah who stumbles forwards.

Her steps are unsure, trembling, as she draws nearer to the body in front of her, and her breath is caught, tightly, painfully, in her chest.

The body is not Zachariah's. It had been a vessel, briefly; nothing more than another suit to don. These are her thoughts when her legs refuse to support her any longer, and she falls, ungainly, gracelessly, to her knees next to it.

The body is not Zachariah's, but it's all that is left. That, and ash.

Lailah screams. Her abused throat burns, and the room warps and splinters around her, but she won't - _can't_ \- stop.

Zachariah, who had loved her, had stood by her, had helped her become not-Lailah, and who had never, _ever_ touched her, is dead. Is dead, because he would do anything for Lailah, for Sevothtarte, for _her_ , no matter what.

He had loved her, and she had sent him to his death, for the sake of her white world. Her pain.

Inside her, rage bubbles, dark and despairing, and it is with this single-minded fury that she rips at her gloves - Sevothtarte's long white gloves that keeps him safe from ever touching, _feeling_ anything - tearing at them until they are shredded, until they are off, until she is exposed.

Zachariah had never touched her, not even once. He had loved her from a respectful distance, and never asked, never expected, anything.

With all that he has given, it is only right that she give him something, even if it is far too late.

Her hands are hesitant, but she is determined, and suddenly Zachariah's hand is cradled softly within hers. It is strange, unfamiliar, to feel skin under her fingertips, and for a time she can only sit there, and feel the flesh that Zachariah had been part of, for that little while.

It is nothing like she remembers, nothing like the nightmares.

In the broken room, Lailah weeps.


	3. each has his own torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** each has his own torment  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Sevothtarte/Zachariah  
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Word count:** 116  
>  **Warnings:** Mentions Lailah.  
>  Prompt: "Sevothtarte/Zachariach/Laliah, the one and only time Zachariah has to keep himself from touching with force of will."  
>  **Summary:** Sevothtarte dreams. Zachariah stands guard.

Sevothtarte is screaming in his sleep - anguished weeping and litanies of "no" in Lailah's abused voice.

Zachariah doesn't know what to do; he's just a boy, and he's afraid. He wants to reach out, wants to comfort the man who has given him everything, who keeps _his_ nightmares at bay.

But he still remembers Lailah; terrified Lailah who'd wept and wept into bloodstained hands next to the corpse of the man who'd grabbed her wrist, that first time Zachariah met her.

So he stays himself; forces his hands to his sides, fingers curled into tight, tight fists, and just stands there at the end of Sevothtarte's bed, keeping a silent vigil over his sleeping suffering.


	4. Drove Through Ghosts To Get Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Drove Through Ghosts To Get Here  
> Characters/Pairing: Alexiel/Rosiel, Dean. With a hint of Alexiel/Lucifer, and some kinda-but-not-really!Sam/Dean.  
> Rating: R  
> Word count: 1924  
> Spoilers: The end of _Angel Sanctuary_ , and _Supernatural_ 6x04.  
>  Summary: Alexiel has things to do. Dean is just along for the ride.

She explodes into being behind Dean's eyes, like the screaming light of stars being born. She blots out everything; his senses shrivel and die under the force of her existence, and his thoughts burn and evaporate at the touch of her consciousness. 

It's like the best fucking orgasm of his life, except for the part where when he comes down from it, he's riding in the backseat of his own body.

She flexes Dean's fingers, inspects his hands and arms, curls his toes, tests his legs, slowly closes and opens his eyes, twists his neck, rolls his shoulders and holyshitfuck _there are fucking wings there_.

The angels that had been about to gank his ass when this... angel, this _thing_ , possessed him are just standing there, frozen, staring. _Terrified_.

"I am Alexiel," she states, testing the way the words feel in Dean's mouth. "I am Alexiel." She casts her gaze around the room, inspects the angels surrounding her. "You are only footsoldiers. Who commands you?" she demands.

"That would be me," Raphael says, stepping through an archway into the room, dragging... _ohdeargod_ , dragging _Castiel_ behind him, and shit, all that blood _can't_ be good, angel mojo or no fucking angel mojo. "Hello, Alexiel."

"Raphael," Alexiel replies. "It's been a while, healer."

"Not long enough," Raphael says, wiping blood from his sword with an edge of Castiel's trenchcoat before leaving him behind and moving instead towards the center of the room, towards Alexiel and Dean. "Your awakening is... untimely and disruptive. You are a factor we don't need in the current political climate." The implicit threat is none too subtle.

Alexiel smiles; just a quirk of her lips. "Oh? And what do you plan to do about this... 'untimely and disruptive factor', then?"  
Raphael's eyes are cold. "You go quietly back into imprisonment, or you will be executed where you stand."  
She laughs then, dark and ugly. "Well then, my would-be executioner; come at me."

"You refuse my offer of mercy?"

"Are you deaf?"

What follows is like a nightmare; it's all too fast for Dean to comprehend, so what he's left with is flicker-flash images of wings and shadows and glinting silver and blood and burning Grace. And, in the end, of Alexiel, crushing Raphael's skull underneath Dean's boot.

The other angels flee, which Dean thinks is pretty smart, as Alexiel is clearly one fucked up chick. Three of them are too slow, though, and are cut into pieces before they can get any further than the front lawn of the house.

And then they're alone, Dean and Alexiel, standing under the stars.

"I am very sorry," Alexiel says. "But I need this body. I will attempt to return it, but I can make no promises."

 _"...Say fucking what?"_ Dean thinks. Very loudly.

Alexiel shrugs her- Dean's shoulders. _Dean's_ fucking shoulders. "There is much to be done now. It may take a very long time. I'm sorry."

 _"It may have slipped your mind, sister, but I didn't agree to any of this. I didn't let you in, and I would like you to get the fuck out of my body, right the fuck now."_

"I didn't need your permission. Your body is my body. My soul is part of your soul. The old rules don't apply to us."

 _"What the fuck are you even talking about?"_ Dean yells, desperation rapidly increasing _"...And what the_ fuck _do you think you are doing_ now _?"_

Alexiel pauses, wings spread wide and standing on Dean's toes. "I have somewhere I need to go," she says, irritation furrowing Dean's forehead.

 _"And what the fuck about Castiel?"_

"Who?"

 _"My an- My friend. The one in there, bleeding out after that asshole Raphael worked him over?"_

Alexiel hesitates, as if deciding if she actually cares enough to bother with it, but eventually turns around and goes back inside.

Castiel looks a lot worse up close, and Dean is pretty sure for a moment that he's actually dead.

"He's not dead," Alexiel says, kneeling next to the wounded angel. "Though not for lack of Raphael trying," she adds as she pulls Castiel up to lean against her chest. "He's tough, this one."

 _"Yeah, he is. Gone through a lot of shit and... What are you doing?"_ Dean asks as she pulls out her sword and rolls up the sleeve of Dean's shirt.

"Healing him. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" she says as she scores her ( _Dean's!_ ) arm deeply along the vein, blood welling up, darker and thicker than Dean remembers it to be. "I am the Organic Angel Alexiel, and this is the best thing that could happen to him right now." 

She sighs a bit, as she presses Castiel's mouth against the wound, and works his throat to swallow. Castiel twitches, then almost seems to seize before his hands come up to clamp fast on Dean's arm as he drinks greedily. It's terrifying and kinda sick, but Dean is too relieved that Cas is going to be alright to pay it much mind.

"Dean?"

And that would be Sam.

Except... Except that when Alexiel disengages from Castiel, two fingers against his forehead to make him sleep, and turns around to face him, it's _not_ Sam.

"Lucifel," Alexiel says to the dark-winged thing superimposed on Sam's body. "You look well."

 _"Oh. Oh god,_ no _. Sam!"_

"Alexiel?" Lucifer says, eyes widened in surprise. "How...?"

 _"Do something, you bitch! Smite him! Get him the fuck out of Sam!"_

"Desperate times. Dean Winchester would have faced nonexistence had I not stepped in. So I awoke."

"And you...?" Lucifer trails off as he steps closer, hand twitching like he wants to reach out and see if Alexiel is real.

"Am staying," she finishes. "You?"

 _"Getting the fuck out of my brother! Use your fucking sword!"_

Lucifer steps back, something like chagrin on his face as he looks away. "I have no choice. I am Sam Winchester now, as much as I am Lucifer."

"Sounds complicated."

"Sometimes."

"Do you know where he is?" Alexiel asks suddenly, out of the blue.

Sam's mouth takes on a decidedly displeased slant. "Alexiel-"

"If you don't tell me, I will find him on my own. I have suffered for generations upon generations to keep the sword hanging over his head from falling, and now that our Father is gone, I _will_ go to him," Alexiel says, and Dean can feel her Grace burning hot inside his chest. "Do you know where he is, Lucifel?"

Lucifer sighs. "Stubborn woman." Then he's suddenly kissing her. Lucifer. Kissing Alexiel. Sam's body. Kissing Dean's body.

 _"Oh fuck no! No! No no no no! You are not fucking doing this! No!"_

Lucifer pulls back. "There; your directions. You'll be running off then?"

"Yes. It's long overdue. Thank you."

"Anything for you, Alexiel."

And then they are not in the room anymore.

Angel flying is... weird. It's... sort of half going somewhere, and half having that somewhere coming to _you_. Except not really. But Dean's going to stick to that explanation, because he'd probably have to take a class or fifteen in something at a university to explain it properly.

They land in a forest somewhere; warm and green and smelling like earth and flowers, and there is a man waiting there, sword in hand.

 _"Okay, who the fuck is this guy?"_

"Katan," Alexiel says. "You've grown."

"Stay back," Katan warns. "I will not let you pass."

"I am not here to harm him, Katan," Alexiel says, taking a step forward. "It has never been my wish to harm him."

"I said stay back! I won't allow you to pass," Katan replies.

"You are a good son, Katan," Alexiel says, smiling. And then she moves, and Katan is falling to the ground, unconscious. "A very good son," she adds, tucking a strand of brown hair behind the vessels ear.

She finds a small house a short hike away from their landing point, and she steps in, silent and careful.

"Katan? Are you back?" a woman's voice calls from the next room, and as Alexiel steps through the doorway, a young redhead comes into view, wrapped in a quilt on an old sofa, and glowing, radiating white light from underneath her pale, pale skin.

"Hello, Rosiel," Alexiel says, voice soft like Dean hardly knew it could ever be.

The girl's - Rosiel's - his - eyes widen. Surprise. Disbelief. Maybe fear. "Alexiel," he says, and his voice wavers maybe a little.

"Katan is safe," Alexiel says reassuringly. "I left him sleeping outside."

"Why are you here?" Rosiel asks, and Dean can see him finger his sword under the edge of the quilt.

"Father is gone," Alexiel says, moving closer. "My compact with him is therefore null," she continues as she kneels next to the old couch. "Brother, I love you," she finishes, grabbing one of Rosiel's hands and bringing it to Dean's mouth to kiss. "I love you, and I have always loved you, and I will forever," she whispers into that glowing skin.

Rosiel is shaking like a leaf, eyes wide and glassy. "You're lying. Why would you lie like that? Why?"

"I'm not lying, Rosiel. I loved you from the very beginning, and I never stopped. But Father and I made a deal; the appearance of disdain, for your life. And I could never let you die; not when I loved you more than anything."

And then Rosiel's thin arms are around Alexiel's (Dean's) shoulders, and the two of them fall back onto the floor, clinging to each other like they could melt together if they just held on tight enough.

"Say it again," Rosiel asks, nails digging into Alexiel's (Dean's) back, hard enough to draw blood.

"I love you," Alexiel whispers against Rosiel's neck, and lays a kiss there. "I love you." And another. "I love you." And another. And another, and another, and another.

 _"Okay, time out! Fucking time out! I do_ not _like where this is going! So fucking cut it out!"_

"Shut up, Dean Winchester," Rosiel sighs into his mouth, before he leans in to kiss, hard and urgent.

(And... and maybe Dean sees something in the angel's eyes; some great and utterly _terrifying_ loneliness. And maybe he recognizes it, a little. And maybe that makes what's going on here - no matter how freaking _wrong_ it is - a bit okay, if only it takes the edge of that emptiness.)

So Dean shuts up, and tries not to think too hard about what's going on; tries to imagine that this is just him having a good time with some pretty girl. That it's his hands inside a silky blouse, cupping small, pert breasts. That the slender fingers undoing his fly belong to a waitress he charmed over dinner.

It doesn't work very well.

Because they way Alexiel and Rosiel touch is nothing like anything Dean has ever done. There is desperation there, and a hunger so deep, Dean thinks it can never be sated. They kiss like they can't breathe without the air from each other's lungs, and they hold on to each other like the universe would tear them apart forever if they let go for even a second.

And when Rosiel's milky white legs are tight around Alexiel's hips, and Alexiel is deep inside her brother's body, it's not enough; not _nearly_ enough, the way it would have been for Dean. They need to press even closer, until their _souls_ are touching, and then even closer _still_.

Then, the world is white; like six wings, lovingly entwined, sheltering.


	5. loyalty, priority, and other words that end with a "y"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: loyalty, priority, and other words that end with a "y"  
> Characters/Pairing: Sevothtarte, Gabriel. Mentions of Gabriel/Jibril and Gabriel/Castiel.  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Word count: 956  
> Spoilers: Lailah and Gabriel, pretty much.  
> Summary: Gabriel never learns, and history always repeats itself.

Sevothtarte likes museums. All that beauty; clean and sterile, hermetically sealed. Not to touch, not to dirty. It's a bit like the Heaven he's trying to build, really.

He likes museums, so when he is forced to take on a vessel and walk the earth, a museum is where he goes. Searching for his quarry would be futile; his quarry will find _him_ , eventually. Sevothtarte has waited for a very long time; he can wait a few days more.

It is on the third night (night of the new moon, how auspicious) that the flutter of wings alert him that he's no longer alone.

"You are _really_ not very good at hunting," Gabriel says.

"You're here, aren't you?" Sevothtarte replies. He's studying an old stone tablet, filled with those quaint little stories humans like to tell themselves about why they exist. His lips twitch in amusement underneath his mask. "I knew you'd come; your curiosity would not let you stay away."

"Well, it _is_ a pretty interesting thing; the Prime Minister himself, putting on a meatsuit to come kill one measly little exile. Don't you have, like, _military_ for that?"

"I would not waste soldiers on trying to erase you, Gabriel, even if your death was my intention. You used to spar with the Morningstar, once upon a time; I have not forgotten how good you are at defending yourself." He turns to face his long-lost brother, this prodigal son who defiled himself in his sister's bed. "I am here to talk."

Gabriel snorts. "What could we _possibly_ have to talk about? Last time I saw you, you exiled me, remember?"

"I gave you the _option_ of exile," Sevothtarte corrects. "I was merciful, when the law said to put you to death, and brand your sister's face with the mark of a whore." _(His cheek does not sting, his chest does not feel hollow, not at all.)_

"Yeah, real merciful," Gabriel replies, humorless grin on his lips. "So... What did you want to talk about, then? _Mister_ Prime Minister?"

"I want you to work Heaven's will."

Gabriel looks stunned. Then... Then he laughs. "Oh man, _that_... That is _priceless!_ That is some Grade A comedy, right there, bro," he speaks around burst of laughter.

"I am not joking, and I do not appreciate your flippancy," Sevothtarte bites out, stays his hand from lashing out.

Gabriel stops laughing, but still has that insufferable grin on his face. "Okay, so... _what?_ You want me do what about this situation, exactly?"

"I want you to steer the Winchester brothers down the path destiny has prepared for them."

"You must not have heard, that didn't go so well for me the last two times I tried," Gabriel says, sarcasm thick in every word.

"But you are in their confidence now," ('wouldn't exactly call it confidence,' Gabriel mutters), "you are in a position where you enjoy more of a power over their _thoughts_ , rather than a power over their bodies. You could do good work from there."

Gabriel shrugs, looks around, puts his hands in his pockets. "I guess. But the problem with that would be that I don't _want_ to." When his eyes turn back at Sevothtarte, they glow like sunshine filtering through water. "I've made my choice in this fight. And my choice is _them_. Them and the rest of this miserable, fucked up, and absolutely _amazing_ world they've got going here."

The rage is white hot and furious Sevothtarte's chest, and Gabriel (who is very clever, but sometimes cannot see what's right in front of him) has no time to avoid the brutal force of his brother's attack. Before he's able to get his equilibrium back, Sevothtarte has him backed against a wall, sword pressed against the soft flesh under his chin.

Sevothtarte is going to scream at him, curse him for his lack of respect and loyalty and gratitude. The words are on his lips, but then he senses it; the _smell_. Gabriel reeks of it, the smell that makes Sevothtarte gag in his sleep.

His voice carries a calm and a steadiness he does not feel when he speaks. "Oh, Gabriel. Can't have your sister, so any angel you can get your hands on will do?" His gloves are staining red from where he's nicked Gabriel's chin, and he'll have to burn them later. "You never learn, do you?"

"Go to fucking Hell, Sevothtarte," Gabriel spits, and his eyes are like furious waters.

"No, I don't think I will," he replies. "But _Castiel_... Now, Castiel _might_ , when I'm done with him. It will be fitting punishment for his multitude of crimes, don't you think? Betraying Heaven, killing his former comrades in cold blood, and then _whoring_ himself to a disgraced exile pretending at godhood." Sevothtarte smiles. "I'll try to make sure you'll be there when I cut off his wings. Unless..."

"Unless _what_ , you sack of _shit_?" And my, my, my, Gabriel must really care for the boy, if the fear in his eyes is to be believed.

"Unless you do as you're _told_ , Gabriel. The apocalypse will go on as scheduled; the Winchester brothers will play their parts. And maybe Castiel won't have to suffer."

"Fuck you," Gabriel says, but he is already giving in; already choosing Castiel's safety over any other responsibility. Just like he'd once chosen _Jibril's_ safety.

"Just remember where your priorities should lie, Gabriel," Sevothtarte says as he steps back, let's Gabriel go.

The flutter of wings is instantaneous, and then Sevothtarte is alone again, in his lonely simulacrum of a perfect Heaven.

No, Gabriel never learns, and for this Sevothtarte is grateful. A less predictable man would make a less satisfactory pawn.

Sevothtarte laughs, and then the museum is empty.


End file.
